


Belladonna Blue

by starfishstar



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Atropa belladonna, F/M, Jane putters around in his garden and is charmingly domestic, Jane's crooked little house by the pond, also references episode 5x02 Devil's Cherry, memories and grief and finding peace, post-White Orchids, post-show finale, rated for hallucinogenic/deliriant drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishstar/pseuds/starfishstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows it's her without even turning his head, knows her from the sweep of her skirt around her knees as she settles on the top step, the dance of her long hair in the corner of his vision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belladonna Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in March, after the finale of The Mentalist aired, but never got around to posting it here on AO3 – so I'm adding it now for the sake of completeness. 
> 
> Basically, I was musing about the matter of Patrick Jane's wedding ring (which I thought was handled very well on the show) and this happened. Contains definite spoilers for the season 7 finale "White Orchids," and probably also won't make much sense if you're not familiar with episode 5x02, Devil's Cherry.
> 
> Please note the warning for use of a dangerous hallucinogenic/deliriant drug.

 

Patrick Jane makes devil's cherry tea just one more time, years after his secretive, short-lived run of attempts back in the old CBI attic.

He's in the garden when he spots the plant. Or, perhaps more accurately, he's in the hopeful beginnings of a garden, a small patch of tilled earth he's gradually expanding outward from the little cottage by the pond toward the trees that surround it. He sows this bit of earth with whatever catches his fancy, wild onions and fiery hot peppers and some salad greens and a little persimmon tree, and a few flowering bushes with pale pink buds that he added simply because he liked how they looked.

Teresa teases him, when she gets up in the mornings and finds him already puttering about his tiny garden, and wants to know what exactly he plans to cook from that strange mixture of ingredients. But Patrick just smiles, and kisses her goodbye for the day, and hands her a sandwich in case she once again doesn't find time for a lunch break.

Teresa is still working full time; Patrick suspects he may eventually have to explain the meaning of the words "maternity leave" to her, but there's time enough for that. He's making good progress on the house every day while she's off fighting crime; it's no longer slanty on the outside, and it's very cozy inside. And his modest garden, with its little green shoots poking determinedly out of the brown earth, is a thing that brings him joy.

He's pulling weeds in the warm sunlight one afternoon, clearing a new patch of ground at the far edge of the garden, when he comes across a plant that strikes him as familiar. Slender, purplish stalks; ovate leaves in uneven pairs; bell-shaped blossoms.

He goes inside and finds Teresa's old smartphone, the one she gave him in the vain hope he might actually learn how to use it properly, when she upgraded to a newer model. He manages to get online, opening browser screens in his usual hunt-and-peck way, and yes, the plant is Atropa belladonna. Patrick glances back out the window, to the edge of the garden. The belladonna's blossoms are delicate, their hue a lovely, deep indigo-blue. Too pretty to pull out and toss away.

He keeps half an eye on the plant, in the weeks that follow, so he's aware when the flowers begin to die back, sleek black berries growing in their place. Sometimes he reaches out to touch the berries when he wanders through that part of the garden, feeling their smooth, obsidian skin cool and plump under his fingers. He plucks a few of the leaves and lays them out to dry in the sun on one corner of the porch, still undecided as to whether he'll ever use them.

He knows perfectly well what this plant can do. And yes, he knows he nearly took it too far, in those desperate nights of brewing tea in the CBI attic, staring out at Sacramento's lights through the darkest hours of the night, frantic to find even an hour's conversation with an apparition of his daughter.

But Charlotte never again emerged from his imagination. He got a few flickers and glimpses, but no walking, talking, sassing grown-up Charlotte telling him to move on and get a grip. It seemed she'd said what she had to say the first time and she wasn't coming back, not even in his mind.

So Patrick, at last, flung the rest of the tea out the attic window, scattering it to the wind. He returned his attention to the team and stopped hiding behind the dark glasses that disguised his nightshade-dilated pupils. Just in time, too, because he sensed Teresa was on the cusp of growing wise to his private pursuits in experimental hallucinogens. He set the whole thing aside, and was no longer tempted to seek solace in delusions.

All right, he was tempted. He was tempted on his beach paradise island, where wandering expats often arrived with veritable pharmacies in their backpacks. He was tempted by the idea that he might be visited by another vision of Charlotte, now a couple years older still, or perhaps simply be able to spend an evening in Teresa's faraway company. But he never acted on the thought. He knew he'd spent enough of his life living with phantasms.

But then came a few twists even Patrick Jane hadn't predicted: He made the deal with Abbott, moved to Texas, told Teresa that he loved her. And they got married on a beautiful day at the little cabin he was fixing up for them, this cabin he'd stumbled across while running away from Lisbon and his feelings, again.

He's glad to know he's done that, the running away, for the last time.

Perhaps it's this knowledge – that he's safe, he's no longer running – that allows him to make this last questionable decision. It's hardly even a conscious choice. One bright afternoon, he's crossing the porch and simply scoops up a small handful of the dried leaves that still lie there, their brittle, browning edges curling up gently toward the sun, then he goes inside to boil water. He prepares the tea in his favorite old turquoise teacup that Teresa, woman of so many talents and mysteries, found and repaired for him. When it's ready, he takes the cup with him to the porch and sits on the top step, looking out over the pond.

A few minutes pass, the breeze ruffling his hair. The air smells fresh, of greenness and water and growing things. The afternoon light has a hazy, golden, dreamlike quality. He sets the teacup aside. Angela sits down beside him.

He knows it's her without even turning his head, knows her from the sweep of her skirt around her knees as she settles on the top step, the dance of her long hair in the corner of his vision.

"Angie," he says, not yet daring to look.

"Hi, Paddy."

He turns to look at her. How could he not?

Unlike Charlotte, Angela looks not a day older than when he last saw her. She's wearing an old favorite sundress of hers, pale yellow with a scoop neck, and her soft, fine hair is pulled loosely back at the nape of her neck. She's smiling, and gentle, and so beautiful. Next to her, Patrick feels suddenly very old.

"Didn't know if you would come," he murmurs. He doesn't reach for her hand. He knows better than to try to touch a hallucination.

"Of course I did." There's such warmth in her voice, such solid reality, as if this were truly Angela Ruskin Jane sitting beside him on the rough wooden boards of his porch in the sunlight by the pond. "I like your new place," she says, gazing around thoughtfully. "This is more your style than a mansion in Malibu ever was."

"You think so?" he asks, honestly surprised. Angela knew him as a kid desperate to break into the big-time, then as a fast-talking charmer working his way up in the world, then as a smarmy fake psychic with more money than he had things to throw it at. He wouldn't have blamed her for thinking a mansion in Malibu was _exactly_ his style.

She laughs, a beautiful sound he's never forgotten. "Oh, but remember, I know you, Paddy Jane. I knew you back when an old picnic blanket spread out under the Ferris wheel and the stars up overhead were all the home you needed, as long as we were together."

"As long as we're together," Patrick whispers back, looking out over the placidly rippling water of the pond, feeling the words catch in his throat.

They'd said that to each other so often, as teenagers plotting their escape from the carnie world she wanted so desperately to leave behind. It didn't matter where they were or what they did, she'd always said, as long as they were together.

And for Angela, those words were true. Patrick was the one who wanted to be even more impressive, win her even more luxury, leverage each success into something bigger still. Angela never cared how impressive or successful he was. But Patrick always managed to forget that in the thrill of the chase.

"I'm sorry," he says. The words are so inadequate in the face of all he's done.

"Oh, love, don't be," Angela says. There's a ghost of a breeze, as if she's passed her hand by his cheek.

"Don't be sorry that I was directly responsible for getting you and our child _killed_?" Patrick asks, unable to disguise his consternation.

"That wasn't your fault."

"Of course that was my fault!"

"It _wasn't your fault_ , Patrick. The onus of blame for murder lies with the murderer, no one else."

"But I provoked him, I knew what he was capable of, and I –"

"Patrick." Her tone is so sharp, he turns to look at her in surprise. "We only have until your toxic tea wears off, that's all the time we have together, and I don't want to spend it fighting with you. The man who killed us is to blame for killing us. And he's gone, you've had your revenge. Don't you think it's time to let go of the guilt, too?"

Patrick feels the lump rising in his throat, though he knows she's not real, she's not real, she's not there. "I'm trying," he whispers. "It's so hard, Angie."

"I know, love."

Patrick stares hard at the reeds that wave gently in the breeze along the pond's edge. He won't cry. Angela wants him to be happy, and to let go.

"Should we talk about Teresa?" Angela asks quietly.

"Do you want to?"

He glances over at her, and her expression is so gentle. "I like her," she says.

He can't help smiling a little. "Me too."

"I'm happy for you, Paddy. It's high time."

Patrick waves a hand vaguely between the two of them. "Is this weird? You and me, talking about my new wife?"

Angela laughs, but Patrick doesn't think he's only imagining that the sound is tinged with sadness. Then again, the whole thing's only in his imagination, so.

"It doesn't have to be weird unless you want it to be," she says. "I'm just glad to get a chance to tell you that you seem happy, and she seems delightful, and I like that she calls you on it when you're getting out of line."

Patrick laughs, and this time it's almost entirely devoid of sadness. "You _would_ like that bit in particular, wouldn't you?"

"And I like that you gave her your ring," Angela says.

"Ah."

"You're right about that, I think," she says. "Your past and your future need to learn to live together. And actually, I think you're doing a good job at that already."

Patrick dips his gaze, thinking how strange it feels to hear these words from her. He studies the backs of his hands, the new lines and wrinkles they've accrued over the years. He knows exactly how much time has passed, nearly to the day, since these hands last touched Angela. He can feel her gaze still on him, so he looks up again and meets her eyes.

"Thanks," he says. "Thank you. It helps to hear you say that."

She nods, quietly. They both watch a pair of ducks with rust-colored fronts and sleek green heads skitter to a landing on the surface of the pond, churning up a track of frothy white water behind them.

Angela says softly, "You know I love you, Patrick. I always loved you, and I always will. But these days, I _like_ who you are even more. You're a good man. I know you'll be a good dad, again."

Now Patrick does feel a hot, painful prickling behind his eyes. It isn't fair. It will never be fair. Charlotte and the child he will have with Teresa should both be allowed to exist in the same world. Angela shouldn't have had to die for Patrick to discover better and less selfish parts of himself. Death is unfair, grossly unfair, no matter in what guise it comes. He brushes impatiently at his eyes with the back of his hand and looks at Angela, drinks in the sight of her in her yellow dress, an embodied ray of sunshine perched for a fleeting moment here on his porch and in his life.

"I love you," he says. "I always will. And I have someone I love now, too, and a life I'm happy in. I don't know how to explain it, but both of those things are true."

"You don't have to explain," Angela says. "And I wouldn't want it any different, you know that. But Patrick –" She laughs softly to herself, and he gazes back at her, baffled. "If you _ever_ drink tea made from a highly poisonous plant again just because you want to see me, I swear even in my non-corporeal state I will find a way to make you very, very sorry."

He takes in the quirk of her eyebrow, the set of her lips, the dimples that appear even when she's at her most serious. Figment of his imagination or no, he believes her. "Yeah, okay. No more poison tea."

"Thank you."

"But today…" He hates to ask it, knows even as he asks it that he's only bargaining with himself. But he wants her presence, just this last day of it, so much. "Will you stay with me as long as you can?"

Again, there's a whisper of air, her hand ghosting over his. "Of course."

So he sits there through the dappled orange light of the afternoon and into the cool blue shades of evening, as the breeze ripples the surface of the pond and the trees murmur to themselves. He sits on the unsanded steps of the house he's repairing for the woman he loves, in the company of the memory of the woman he loved, and treasures each tranquil moment as it slips by, leaving a silvery trail of reminiscence glimmering in the air. The sun dips behind the hills. The world is quiet.

And Patrick Jane is surprisingly, unexpectedly, almost despite himself, at peace.

 


End file.
